


Troublesome Transitons

by Xanateria



Category: Highlander: The Series, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Almost a Crossover, Angst, Highlander: The Series fusion, M/M, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, apparent character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanateria/pseuds/Xanateria
Summary: Sherlock really didn't have a plan when he jumped off the roof of Barts. He just knew John Watson was worth dying for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this bunny just would not let go of me, even though I should have been working on my Sherlock/Pretender crossover or on Master Work. So many people had so many elaborate speculations about how Sherlock pulled it off, and it just hit me that he probably would have done the same thing, even if he didn't have a plan. And then this story was born.
> 
> As always, thanks to annieb1955 and NaiyaAzurewater for beta reading services extraordinaire.

 

_"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome."  
\--Isaac Asimov _

On balance, Sherlock was categorically certain he could do without Moriarty’s continued existence a mere one hundred and ninety six seconds after their first meeting. When the other man made the tactical decision to endanger John’s life, it took all of Mycroft’s considerable powers of persuasion to force Sherlock to allow him the continued pleasure of breathing. But his brother was right - unfortunately. Killing someone without knowing the full scope of their influence and spread of their network is foolish and, in this case, more about the indulgence in sentiment than sound tactics.

Sherlock knows that, thanks to his utter lack of basic things such as sanity or a conscience, Moriarty is more dangerous than he seems. But it is so stimulating to have a real opponent again that Sherlock lets himself get caught up. By the time he realizes the very real danger his actions have put his friends in, events had vastly limited his choices when it came to dealing with the other man in a properly final way.

John had been right when he accused Sherlock of enjoying the hunt, the illicit thrill of an opponent who was actually on his level. It happened so rarely, since he and Mycroft had agreed to come down on the same side of the important issues, for Mummy’s sake if nothing else.

But no matter what anyone thinks, there are some lines even Sherlock won’t cross and catching criminals at his friend’s expense is definitely one of them. He doesn’t have so many friends that he can afford to lose one, especially the one he considers the best of the lot.

John is something of a conundrum, really.

Somewhat to his surprise, they are friends, quite good ones. And it happened despite the fact that Sherlock isn’t interested in the usual trappings of friendship and can’t be bothered to remember dull things like personal boundaries. And he simply doesn’t care about the subtle shadings that keep relationships strictly platonic. His relationship with John goes beyond such a stupidly banal word in any case.

If he’s completely honest with himself, he knew very soon after they met that he didn’t want to keep things platonic between himself and his doctor. But he doesn’t allow those thoughts free reign very often. No one could possibly dispute the fact that he is terrible at romantic relationships. The evidence, in the form of those he had attempted, was overwhelming and hideously, painfully negative. None of his former partners could so much as stand the sight of him now, unless it was for calculated reasons (usually to rub his nose in the better quality partner they’d found after him).

Despite what people think, Sherlock is more than cognizant of his faults: he’s rude, arrogant, high handed and almost never bothers to learn what polite society expects of him. He can’t tolerate groups for long enough to learn, even if he had the inclination. Besides, by the time he was twelve, he’d tried and failed so many times to be normal and do what was expected, that his parents must think him their very own perpetual disappointment. And that’s not a particularly comforting thought. Small wonder he spends so much time avoiding socialization as an adult.

Still, he cannot bear the thought of seeing the combination of derision and disappointment on John’s face. Much as Sherlock’s libido and imagination might wish it otherwise, he knows they are too good friends and he couldn’t do that to John. Besides, he is too dependent on the relationship - the unconditional warmth and stability that provides a desperately needed support he didn’t realize he’d spent years seeking until he’d found it.

Sherlock knew that Moriarty would threaten John again; his ego and his twisted logic will leave him no choice. He deduced that the mad genius would raise the stakes but he failed to account for the accelerated timeline. He’s not so stupid to think he’s being summoned to the roof of Bart’s for anything other than carefully orchestrated violence, but he’d expected somewhat more time to play the game. By the time he realized his mistake, it was far, far too late. There is only one choice to make that will save those who need to be protected.

Oddly, when he realizes how close to death he is, there is no crippling fear or frantic denial. He’s angry that he miscalculated and he’s curious to see exactly what will happen when his body finally stops the biological processes he’s been at the mercy of for so long. At least he’ll finally know what happens next.

But the spark of curiousity burns out, smothered in a great swamping wave of regret so consuming it shoves Moriarty’s annoying voice to the background. It’s not fair, there are so many things he wishes now that he could do differently. Only now, staring down to the pavement below, does he comprehend how much he let his own fears and insecurities keep him from deepening his relationship with John.

And because of that, he’ll face whatever comes next without knowing how much better things could have been, without so much data about John on a more intimate level. It’s a sacrifice worth making. He knows that, deep in the very marrow of his bones, just like he ’s always known there’s nothing he won’t do for John. But to be forced to leave him this way cuts at him, a pain only eclipsed by the pain of knowing he’ll hurt John with the very actions that will save him. The unfairness of the realization leaves him shaking. His nails cut into his palms as he turns back to Moriarty.

He tries to use the emotions he can barely control as motivation. There has to be a way to change the outcome to something more favourable. But then Moriarty does the one thing Sherlock thought he would never do turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger rather than give Sherlock any leverage to work with.

The next several moments happen in flashes, so quickly that Sherlock can’t keep them properly ordered, but still in searingly vivid detail. He sees John fling himself from the back of a cab and start toward the hospital doors. Sherlock’s mobile is in his hand and dialed before he realizes it. Bad enough his John will have to see this, how much worse will the whole thing be for him if he gets even closer?

John’s voice, even cracking like it is, makes this horrible experience a bit more bearable. And it’s selfish, Sherlock knows it is, but he’s so desperately glad John is there. He thinks he might actually be scared if he had to do this alone. He’s never been fond of the unknown or uncontrollable variables and what is death if not both? But just like always, when he doesn’t have the will to do something, John is there, his solid strength offered for whatever Sherlock needs, even this, which he won’t understand and which will hurt him so very much.

He cuts John off with a stab of regret. He wants to listen longer, but that’s not possible, not now. “I’m sorry, John. So very sorry. But I’m out of time. I can’t explain it. I know you’ll probably hate me for what I’m about to do. But it’s necessary.”

“I could never hate you, Sherlock. Not possible,” John tells him, his quiet voice ringing with sincerity even now.

Sherlock has to stop, clear his throat and draw in a breath. How he hopes that is true. Dying seems less horrific than knowing John Watson hates him.

“Do try and remember you said that,” he finally manages to say. “And please understand, I have no other choice.” Sherlock knows his tone is perilously close to begging. It should be appalling, but he doesn’t care.

“Please, Sherlock. Let me help. This isn’t the way. We’ll figure something out.” Now John is begging, all but on his knees without hesitation, uncaring of where he is or who might hear him. Trying to save Sherlock. Again.

The pain of knowing he is beyond saving feels as if it might crack Sherlock’s heart in two, like he might already be bleeding. “I’m sorry, John. There will be a letter. When it comes, please read it. Do that for me.”

“No, Sherlock. Just no. This isn’t how we end. It can’t be. Don’t do this to me.”

And here is fear and panic, not his, but they rip at him. He wants to make it better but he can’t. Another breath and when he speaks again, Sherlock tries to put everything he feels, every regret, enormous as they seem now, into one word. “Goodbye.”

The muted beep of the call ending cuts off the torrent of John’s words and only then does Sherlock feel lost, bereft of the only thing that made this whole mess bearable. And it’s still not his own end he dreads as he steps to the very edge of the roof. He lets himself look down at his friend, so far below and thankfully a safe distance back, and spares the span of a single heartbeat to wish - fervently and with every ounce of his being - that John will not suffer too much with what’s to come. Whatever else he might be, John will be alive, and that’s what matters.

Holding fast to that certainty, Sherlock pictures his most cherished memory: John’s expression the first time he heard Sherlock deduce.

And then he jumps.

 

***

In John’s mind, the sound of traffic, the pedestrians, the usual cacophony of everyday London simply fades away. There is only a wail of absolute negation - a mix of horror, anger and complete and utter desolation. It’s more than a denial and John doesn’t let himself voice it, because to voice it would mean accepting what has just happened and he cannot - no he will not - do that.

It’s a trick.

It has to be a trick.

This is Sherlock, the man who is multitudes of steps beyond any mere mortal at any given time. Of course Sherlock had a plan. And his plan had contingency plans, and those contingencies had carefully crafted alternatives of their own.

In what feels like a blink, he’s beside Sherlock. He drops to his knees, hands reaching out to take his pulse automatically. People are talking, babbling really, but it doesn’t register. Everything blurs into a roar that pounds in his ears because there is nothing, no pulse, no matter where he checks. The body is a mangled wreck and it’s wearing his best friend’s face. And it can’t be. This can’t be how they end, not after all the ridiculously dangerous things they’ve done. It’s obscene. Another blink and he’s being ushered inside, shepherded along like a lost little sheep. He finds himself sitting on one of the terrible plastic chairs outside of the morgue, staring blankly at the doors.

When he finally stands, moving feels like he’s underwater, everything takes so much effort that he wants to stop, to just let himself collapse, anything but keep moving forward. Distantly, the part of his brain that is a doctor no matter what else is happening tells him he’s in shock, that he needs fluids and quiet and warmth. But he ignores it, because it makes him think of shock blankets and crime scenes and the memory brings no comfort, only a smear of illness in his stomach. Pushing it away is a dizzying effort that leaves him sweating.

Molly turns to him as he lurches into the room. One look at her bone white face and red-rimmed, but dry, eyes and his spine snaps straight. There may be no place for the doctor in him in this situation but the soldier knows how to keep moving as the world ends. That’s what he’s best at, actually. Idly, a small corner of his brain wonders if he can just will himself to stop living. If Sherlock can stop, surely he can too.

His attention snaps back when he realizes Molly is speaking to him.

“John, you shouldn’t be here. It’s… not good.”

How any times has he told Sherlock that? John wonders, as he shakes his head and marches carefully over to the table where he sees a swath of familiar coat.

Someone’s done their best to clean him up; he recognizes the signs and his heart clenches. He’s done the same in too many circumstances to count. But somehow this is worse, because this isn’t some nameless soldier, or even a soldier he knows. This is Sherlock, who seemed so above petty concerns like accident or injury or even mortality itself.

He should have known Molly would try to make this easier. She would do anything for Sherlock and she’s a hell of a lot stronger than most people give her credit for. He appreciates the effort, or he thinks he will when he can bear to think of this later.

Molly squeezes his arm in comfort as she moves to stand beside him, looking at him sideways as if waiting to see if he will collapse or have hysterics.

She doesn’t understand. He cannot let himself recognize and feel the pain. That would mean it was all real, not some mad scheme. He doesn’t think he wants to survive what losing Sherlock - really, and truly losing him forever - will do to him.

His voice is eerily calm when he speaks. “Can I have some time alone with him, please?”

Molly nods. It’s short and jerky and he knows she doesn’t want to leave him. But she’s a good person and a kind friend and, after a long look at him, she slips out the door almost like she was never there at all.

Alone in the sterile box of a room, he lets himself look over the body carefully. The signs of catastrophic damage are obvious and unmistakable. He feels himself start to shake and shuts his eyes. Unable to look for another second, he turns and braces himself against the wall, drops his head to his chest and just tries to breathe. Even though it feels like the air isn’t moving at all, he keeps trying.

Movement behind him almost makes him pivot, but he recognizes the stride before he needs to.

“Come on, mate. This isn’t the place for either one of us,” Lestrade tells him. His voice is wrecked, but his tone is more gentle than John has ever heard it. The detective’s eyes are red and there are tear tracks on his face, but he’s got his you’re-gonna-do-this-so-don’t-bloody-argue-with-me expression on.

Slowly, trying not to show what it costs him to leave Sherlock there, cold and alone, John follows the DI out of the room. He feels as if he’s leaving bits and pieces of himself strewn down the hall like a trail of crumbs, but he supposes he ought to get used to being less than he was anyway.

They take a cab back to Baker Street; John refuses Greg’s offer to take him someplace else. When they’re safely in the flat, he sits in his chair and accepts the tumbler of whiskey from the other man without comment.

The silence is heavy and awkward in a way it’s never been before but John doesn’t even really register the steady presence in the chair across from him. His mind is too busy screaming at him that the gaping absence of Sherlock from the space is permanent. He thinks it would be easier to try and accept the loss of an arm or a leg. At least then people would know by looking at him that there was a vital piece of him missing.

Greg finishes his drink but keeps the glass in his hand. He takes a careful breath, then another, eyes on his feet. The sound he makes isn’t quite a sob, but John doesn’t know what else to call it. Then Greg turns the glass and flings it at the wall, watching it shatter like he can’t quite figure out how it ended up there. When he speaks, he leads with anger, not grief.

“I just keep thinking that he can't have been this much of a selfish fuck. He can't have done this to you, to me, Mrs. Hudson… Molly.” He trails off and shakes his head. “But then I realize he absolutely could and it’s a bloody good thing he’s dead because I swear to you, if he was here, I’d beat him to a pulp to show him exactly how massively not okay this is.”

John nods, the movement careful because he’s exerting every ounce of control he can to keep himself from flying apart. “I’d hold your coat,” he agrees, and then swallows the last of his own drink.

There’s movement on the stairs then, and, for one wild, hopeful moment, John lets himself think Sherlock will burst through the door, a bundle of frenetic energy and frustration that those closest to him couldn’t simply grasp the details of his insane plan out of the air. But it’s Mycroft who knocks softly and then lets himself in.

John still doesn’t particularly like Mycroft. As first impressions go, he can think of better ones than kidnapping, threats, and intimidation all capped off with invasion of privacy. But he doesn’t protest the man’s presence, even though he knows for a fact that Sherlock never gave his brother a key. He always said Mycroft went where he pleased, untroubled by the considerations of lesser mortals. John had pressed the issue only once and Sherlock had pressed his lips together in a firm line and informed John that he couldn’t give Mycroft a key, because then it was possible his brother would begin to think he was wanted or welcomed on the premises.

John’s relationship with Harry was hardly a paragon of sibling love so he’d shut his mouth, chalked it up to complex family dynamics and resolved to leave well enough alone.

Greg looks from him to Mycroft and back. “I would say my condolences for your loss, but I’m not sure you even care. Minor position in government my arse; if anyone could have stopped this whole bloody mess, it's you and we all know it.”

Though he can understand the anger and pretty much agrees with the sentiment, John holds up a hand and Greg quiets.

John is an expert in all things Holmes and if you know what you’re looking for, the signs of grief are there: slight bags under Mycroft’s eyes, less than perfect creases on his pants and the stiff line of added tension across his shoulders. Whatever else he had or hadn’t done, Mycroft has lost Sherlock too. In this moment, that’s punishment enough.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

The sooner he finds that out, the sooner Mycroft will leave. The added reminder of Sherlock is the last thing he needs right now. Seeing Sherlock’s mannerisms on his brother is like salt on an open wound.

Surprises flashes across the elder Holmes brother’s face for an instant, like the basic courtesy is vastly more than he expects, but he covers it quickly and reaches into his jacket pocket to withdraw two envelopes. They’re a rich cream colour and look as if they came straight from some posh stationary store.

Mycroft hands one to Lestrade and the other to John. They take them, more out of reflex than anything. Neither of them say thank you. The silence drags on for a breath too long before Mycroft speaks.

“Sherlock asked me to deliver these, should anything happen to him. He asked me to implore you both to read them, no matter what your reaction might be to his unfortunate demise.” He stopped, his precise diction suffering, then cleared his throat. “No matter what either of you believe, this was the last possible outcome I wanted. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He’s gone before either of them can say anything in reply.

John looks at the envelope in his hands and wishes he could find his anger. That might give him a reason not to read whatever words Sherlock had decided were important enough to leave behind. Whatever it says, he knows reading it will break him apart and force him to at least begin to accept that the man he’d made the very centre of his world is gone. But he also knows there’s nothing he won’t do for Sherlock, even when the other man has left him in the most hurtful, irrevocable way. That doesn’t say flattering things about him, he’s sure. But it’s true, all the same.

Besides, Sherlock asked him to read the letter when it came. Typical, the man hadn’t managed to plan not to get dead, but very likely had the letters, written and ready to cover any eventuality.

He’ll read the letter, but not with an audience. Whatever Sherlock has to say to him, it’s private. More to the point, if he’s going to break, he doesn’t need a witness to the pieces.

Greg doesn’t want to leave, any idiot could see that, but John finds it almost too easy to insist. He simply doesn’t care if the older man is worried, or angry, or seething with guilt. He can see the care and concern, but there is no answering resonance within himself. Any other time, that would worry him. Now, he only distantly notices. There’s no room left in his mind for anyone else’s emotions. It’s strange, almost surreal. He’s been caring for others - their wants, their needs and especially their feelings - his whole life. Shutting that off should provoke… something. But there is nothing.

He walks to Sherlock’s room and it feels almost as if he’s underwater again, it takes so much more effort than it should. He’s never been in there without his flatmate’s express permission. The brief flare of pain when he realizes that privacy is no longer an issue is intense enough that he nearly bends over to curl around it. But he knows all about doing shitty, painful things now, so he takes a deep breath and goes to sit on the edge of the neatly made bed. Carefully, he opens the envelope and takes out the letter, the paper heavy and stiff in his hands.

_My John,_

_If you’re reading this, then I have passed on to whatever adventure comes after this life. It is only my absence that gives me the courage to call you mine as I open this missive, but in the relative protection of my own mind, that is what you have always been: my doctor, my blogger, my everything._

_It is my own fault that you never knew that; I couldn’t let you know the real depth of my regard for you, for both our sakes. But since I am gone, there is no harm in the truth and I owe you that, among so many other things. I can only hope that knowing these things will come to bring you some small measure of comfort._

_To be absolutely truthful, for once, I must admit that I had half-hoped you were trying to test the waters that night at Angelo’s when you asked about my relationship status. I was so drawn to you, even then, and part of me wanted to tell you that I was single and unattached just to see where that would take us._

_I took the easy road when I told you I was married to my work. That became my stock answer to that question after the dissolution of my last serious relationship. Romantic relationships are not my forte and, as you can imagine, it was not an amicable parting and the situation was almost entirely of my own creation. I can create the fiction of a relationship quite convincingly. However, the real thing – a functional, happy, romantic relationship - has proven to be quite beyond my capacity._

_I have not lived a safe life and the list of enemies who wish me a great deal of harm is likely only outstripped by those who wish me dead. Given that, and the aforementioned difficulty with relationships, I had decided to stay away from any entanglements. If I was unattached, there was no possibility that anyone could be used as leverage against me. And keeping that distance was easy - until I met you._

_You were the first person who made me with that wasn’t the case, that I might actually be able to be the partner you deserve. From the first moment we met, I wanted you, as so much more than my friend and my blogger, though of course both of those have their merits. With such a small likelihood I could navigate the perils of a romantic pairing, it seemed too dangerous to risk the dissolution of such a staggeringly important friendship._

_Every time I could see the subtle signs of your attraction to me, the telltale clues that something I did had aroused you, my resolve wavered. If it’s true that the main regrets of one’s life visit them at the end, then the fact I never acted on your interest will be highest on my list._

_The fact you chose to be my friend, despite the vagaries of my temperament, the extremes of my lifestyle and the often unceasing demands I made on you, never ceases to amaze me. Your friendship was one of the greatest gifts I was ever given. I’m only sorry I could never find the words to adequately express my gratitude in person._

_More than anything, I wish to remind you that you vastly underestimate your own capabilities. It may seem that you cannot survive more loss, but you can. You’re so much stronger than you think you are._

_Whatever comes next, it will be less appealing and certainly less enjoyable without you by my side. But I am glad you are alive and well enough to read this, even if I shall miss you immensely. Be well and, eventually, be happy. It’s the very least you deserve._

_SH_

His face is wet. John nearly brings a hand up to touch his cheek, then stops. It’s as if his mind is a record needle caught in a groove. The central assumption of his life was false: Sherlock knew. All this time and Sherlock knew exactly how much John wished things had been more than friendly between them.

He didn’t act on it, told himself he respected Sherlock’s wishes. And he did. But he’d also been afraid of the intensity of his own feelings, of what changing their dynamic could mean, of what would happen if he did give in and had to cope when Sherlock inevitably grew bored and left John ruined for anyone else.

As the months had trundled on and became years, John had comforted himself with the idea that, no matter how embarrassing his unrequited feelings might have been, it didn’t matter. Feelings didn’t really register with Sherlock, at least not when it came to other people, so he didn’t pay them any attention.

Bad enough he couldn’t get his feelings for his best friend under control. At least Sherlock didn’t know John made a complete idiot of himself a lot of the time, since the man barely had to touch him to get him wound up. And that voice. That just wasn’t even fair.

Really he should have known that nothing between the two of them would ever be that simple. And he was the last person to underestimate Sherlock, so perhaps the fact he had done so about the true nature of his feelings said more than he though.

All of this flashes through his mind just ahead of an anger like nothing he’s ever felt before. He wants to break things, or scream and curse, or, even better, both at the same time. If he'd ever had any inkling of even a ghost of a chance, John knows he would have taken it. He would have thrown himself in completely and without hesitation. But Sherlock bloody Holmes had made the decision for him, because - as usual - he was convinced he knew better than anyone else.

World’s greatest detective or not, Sherlock should have fucking asked. He’d missed an important piece of the puzzle. John couldn’t control the fact that he’d desired Sherlock, wanted to hold him, touch him, map every inch of that gorgeous, lean body with his tongue. But that wasn’t even close to the only reason he’d wanted a relationship. He doesn’t have a name for all the things he wanted. He’s not sure there is one, but he’d wanted everything and then more after that.

Even now, with no hope of anything ever coming of it, John knows that underneath his anger this realization hurts like someone has ripped his heart out of his chest. Not because he lost his best friend, though he has, but because he’s lost the man he’s loved for so long that he doesn’t think he knows how to keep existing in a world without him.

He’ll keep going because that’s what he does, bloody fucking glutton for punishment that he is. He’ll do anything for Sherlock, even keep living in a world that has no place for him. But he knows the last thing Sherlock asked is impossible. Happy is no longer a part of John’s world.

 

***

Alone in his office, Mycroft doesn’t bother to turn on the light. There is a glass of extremely expensive scotch on his desk, but it is untouched. Objectively, he knows there are urgent matters that need his attention. But, for the first time in a very long time, he cannot force himself to deal with any of them.

The overwhelming evidence of his failure replays in his thoughts on a loop that gets louder with each replay. How ironic that so many of his enemies, and likely a swath of friends, would claim he was incapable of mistakes. He’s made so many in the past few months, but none as catastrophic as allowing Sherlock freedom of movement that ultimately led to his demise. He knows better than anyone what real challenges do to a mind that functions on the Holmes level.

He should not have allowed the entanglement with Moriarty to continue. The fact he had done so at the behest of world leaders who thought his baby brother had the best chance of stopping the maniac was both true and intolerable. He hadn’t underestimated the danger, but rather Sherlock’s often uncanny ability to come out of such situations unscathed, except perhaps blows to his rather formidable pride. By the time Mycroft’s sources had alerted him that things might have progressed beyond reasonable control, it was far too late.

Delivering the letters felt like a last, unequivocal, sign of the depth of his own failure. Leave it to Sherlock to force Mycroft to be the messenger to the two people he felt least able to face. They had every right to their anger but what they didn’t - couldn’t - know was that, however angry they were at him, they couldn’t come even remotely close to how angry he was with himself. Since the day Mummy had come home with Sherlock all those years ago, he’d been completely devoted to his brother. He had taken it upon himself to protect Sherlock from all the evils of the world, no matter what the cost, even if that meant protecting him from himself. It was unfathomable that he could have failed so completely, and worse knowing he had only himself to blame.

The very idea that he will never see Sherlock again is ludicrous, so completely foreign that even his intellect, with all its capacity, simply refuses to process it. Mycroft rarely lets himself acknowledge his own emotional reactions, but the pain that sweeps through him when he contemplates a future without Sherlock is so staggering that he’s quite sure if he was standing he would fall to his knees. A tiny part of him wants to beg for someone to make the pain stop but that’s impossible now.

The shrill ring of the phone might have startled him if he allowed himself such luxuries. He knows it must be something with the potential for disaster, no other calls would have been allowed through. He dismissed his assistant hours ago so he reaches for the phone slowly, refusing to allow his hand to shake.

“Yes?” He rarely has patience for niceties and has even less now.

“Mr. Holmes. It’s Molly. Molly Hooper. I found the emergency number you gave me in case Sherlock started using again and called because… Well, I’m not sure I can properly explain it over the phone, actually. It’s just… There are some… anomalies with the body and I’m not sure how long I can hide them. Please, I’m so sorry to bother you, but you need to come.”

Mycroft feels his heart rate increase and blinks a few times while he processes her tone, her words and her diction. While she is so often underestimated, Ms. Hooper is singularly competent in her work and normally quite unflappable.

“I’ll be there directly. Do try to stay calm,” he tells her and then disconnects the call. Leave it to Sherlock to be causing problems even when he’s moved on to whatever passes for an afterlife. The very idea of Sherlock dead is still so intensely painful that a part of him wishes he could pass whatever this might be off to a trusted underling. But he can’t. He never could, not when it concerned his baby brother.

He does send a team ahead. What it creates in paperwork, it more than makes up for in privacy, peace and quiet. Whatever unfortunate discovery Ms. Hooper has made, he is past the point of being able to be surprised. But he would very much like to keep any and all revelations out of the media and the paparazzi are damnably inventive when they want to be.

He knows the morgue is secure before he steps through the doors. Ms. Hooper takes one look at him and gestures for him to follow, though she doesn’t head through the second door to the cold storage units. Instead she leads him through a card-locked side door and down a hallway until she stops in front of a nondescript grey door with a scuffed silver handle.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know this is going to be a shock.” She starts to say something more, but he cuts her off.

“I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing that you could tell me about my brother that would shock me at this point.”

She looks at him for a moment, her expression odd and difficult to place, and nods before speaking again. “I really, really, wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Molly holds up a hand before he can ask the obvious question. “Look just, look at what I have in here. Then you can decide the best thing to do. And don’t worry, I already looped the cameras. No one will see.” She turns the handle and steps back to let him pass her.

He’s wondering why she’s suddenly skittish and why the cameras are important, so he almost misses the soft click of the door closing behind him.

But it doesn’t matter, because there, in the rickety excuse for an office chair, is Sherlock. He’s in hideous green scrubs three sizes too large, and fairly vibrating with nervous tension, but it is undeniably his bother.

For a second, pure shock blanks Mycroft’s mind. Then, a fierce joy he never expected to feel again floods him. His fists clench as he fights for control. A thousand questions crowd his mind but he ignores all of them. He moves carefully closer and reaches to touch the face he knows as well as - if not better than - his own.

Sherlock’s cheek is warm beneath his fingers. Mycroft takes a breath and feels it catch in his chest. And then he is holding Sherlock so tightly that he’s surely constricting his brother’s ability to breathe but he cannot find it within himself to care.

After a moment - since this isn’t something they do, isn’t something he’s allowed himself in years - Sherlock’s arms come up to hug back, clinging tightly until their breath to synchronizes like it used to do when they were children comforting each other after a fright.

“Be careful, Mycroft, or I’ll start thinking you’re glad to see me.” Sherlock’s voice is devoid of the sarcasm that has marked so many of their recent interactions.

In fact, Mycroft can hear the same joy he feels, somewhat more controlled than his might be. Whatever is going on, Sherlock has clearly had longer to absorb it. He tries to find the same light tone, but his control seems to have temporarily deserted him because what comes out sounds nearly desperate.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” He manages to stop, which is something, and feels Sherlock squeeze his shoulders.

“I shall certainly endeavour not to,” Sherlock replies, his voice calm, at least on the surface.

“How is this possible?” Mycroft asks, once he’s stepped back and collected a modicum of his usual calm.

“How is that I’m alive, rather than the mangled wreck they brought in here some hours ago? As much as it pains me to admit it, I have absolutely no idea.”

Sherlock looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon, but Mycroft doesn’t have the energy or the inclination to be particularly cutting about the admission. “Duly noted. I’ll look into it.”

“Do.”

“I doubt there can be much more important than your resurrection on my agenda for the foreseeable future, brother mine. I mean look at you: there’s not a mark on you.”

Sherlock looks at him then, his gaze intense, eyes tracking the micro-expressions he’s allowed to see. “Whatever this is, it wasn’t your doing?” He is unable to mask the hint of suspicion in his voice.

Mycroft tries not laugh, but he simply cannot help it, full on, from deep down, until there are tears in his eyes. When he manages to collect himself, he reaches for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Had he known how to engineer a feat such as this, he would have done it with or without Sherlock’s consent to keep him safe. "Despite what you think, some things are beyond even me.

Sherlock blinks, his focus clearly divided. “In that case, discovering the truth may have to take second place to one other… problem.”

Though he feels all his muscles clench and has to make a conscious effort to relax, Mycroft merely nods. “I thought as much. Not even you would leap off a roof without good cause, especially not in front of the good doctor.”

Mere mention of John Watson bleeds pain back into Sherlock’s eyes. He may be whole and hearty on the outside, but he is definitely wounded. Still, he manages a complete, concise explanation of the events on the roof, and the threats against Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John that led to his fall.

Then he stops, and the pause is jagged and painful.

“It makes the most tactical sense for me to stay dead, at least for as long as it takes to dismantle Moriarty’s organization.”

Sherlock’s face is closed off but Mycroft knows him too well to think that this is easy. It is far too late to protect his brother from this pain. Part of him wishes he had simply murdered Moriarty when he had the chance. He might even have given himself the pleasure of being the one to pull the trigger.

Now, though, there is no arguing with the fact that Sherlock is uniquely suited to the task he has set himself. He’ll find and neutralize the remains of the network far faster than anyone else could. Still, there are questions that need to be asked.

“Are you certain this is what you want?”

Mycroft is unprepared for the anger he gets in response.

“This isn’t about what I want.”

Sherlock’s words are sharp and furious, but the hatred underneath it is directed only at himself.

“You know this will be very hard on all of them, but especially John,” Mycroft points out, the image of John as he last saw him etched in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother more, but it has to be said.

“Don’t you think I know that? You’re the one always harping about how I shouldn’t allow sentiment to cloud my decision making. Aren’t you proud of how well I’ve learned my lesson?”

Under the circumstances, Sherlock is entitled to a certain amount of bitterness. But Mycroft had to be certain Sherlock understood what he was getting into. It physically pains him to think about what his brother will soon suffer, but there's nothing for it now.

He doesn’t bother with the usual comforting - but useless - phrases. Instead, he says the one thing that might actually help. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that he doesn’t neglect himself too much or allow his skills to completely deteriorate.”

Perhaps being dead had a more profound effect than Mycroft assumed, because Sherlock manages to control his temper much more quickly than experience would predict. And then he sounds genuinely grateful when he speaks. “Thank you.”

With a nod in answer, Mycroft moves to leave. There is much to be done before Sherlock will be able to leave safely to begin his self-imposed mission. It’s more exile than assignment, but he always did take his responsibilities seriously, even as a child. Very little has changed.

At the door, he can’t help but pause. To his horror, he can feel tears gathering when he looks back and sees Sherlock, leaning against the desk, looking for all the world like being alive offends him, though it’s more likely the coarse weave of the scrubs.

“I feel as though I should thank you,” Mycroft finally tells him, though it is the very least of what he wants to say.

“I don’t think I get to take the credit sadly. We’re not altogether certain how I managed it, never mind how I healed myself of the accompanying injuries, but I assume you mean for not being dead. So, you’re welcome.”

“Actually, I meant for allowing Ms. Hooper to tell me.”

“Oh, that.” The pause was slight, but noticeable and then Sherlock smiles, small and careful. “You’re welcome.”

 

***

Sherlock would never have foreseen a day made better by an embrace from his brother, of all people, but this day has not been what even the Holmes brothers could call a normal. And, like it or not, he does feel calmer and more able to think after Mycroft’s departure.

A few moments later, Molly comes back into her office. Although the signs of happiness are obvious, her facial expression is serious and her eyes are particularly grave. “You’re going to stay dead, aren’t you?”

He lets his surprise show. He knows she’s more intelligent than most give her credit for, but she put that together far faster than even he was expecting. “I wish there was another alternative, but at this point, I cannot explain how I came to be back in the land of the living and, even if I did, that wouldn’t negate the threat to some of the important people in my life. Now I find myself needing to ask for your capable assistance in my disappearance,” he tells her, with an approving smile for her conclusion.

The pause before she answers is so long, Sherlock thinks she might say no.

“Of course I’ll help. I’ll even ask some of my colleagues, confidentially, if they’ve heard of anything like this happening before. But I think you’re underestimating how much this is going to hurt people. Especially John.”

His hand bangs down on the desk before he can stop it. “Don’t you think I know exactly how much pain I’m causing him?” The deep breath he forces himself to take doesn’t help him calm down. His mind stutters from one snapshot of John to the next, him adorably rumpled first thing in the morning, his face when he won’t be argued with, the way he grips his gun to follow Sherlock into danger. The thought of losing those things, for months, maybe years, is more painful than the memory of horrendous pain when he struck the pavement, just before the blackness rushed in. But there’s nothing for it. He has to keep John, keep them all, safe. He has to.

“No. Sorry. Of course not,” Molly agrees, her voice quavering with hesitation. “It’s just… you never seemed very aware of feelings before, his or yours.”

“As it turns out, I can conclusively report that being dead is an excellent way to change one’s perspective,” Sherlock tells her. He doesn’t even try to soften the hard edges of his tone. The whole situation is intolerable. He has to deal with the frustration of it before he starts screaming.

Molly’s giggle at that looks like it surprises even her. Then she gives him a look he recognizes from the other times he was short with her. It’s a look that says she understands why he is the way he is better than he does.

But when she speaks, it’s not about his words, or his mood or any other sticky emotional topic.

“How can we even be talking about this like it’s a real thing? I mean, you were dead Sherlock. You might be able to convince others that it was an elaborate trick, but I know dead when I see it and I’m the one who cleaned you up. I know how much of a wreck you were. That kind of damage doesn’t just… vanish.”

Sherlock says nothing, but gives into the urge to arch an eyebrow at her.

“Well, yes, alright,” she continues. “Recent evidence says otherwise, but it doesn’t normally happen. Don’t you think finding out how you survived should be at least as important as whatever you’re off to do now?”

Sherlock wants nothing more than to be able to answer. There is nothing he hates more than unanswered questions but this one will just have to wait. Moriarty is still a danger, still the driving force behind his staying dead, and he has to answer the questions intrinsic to John’s safety before those of his own. John comes first, every time. Always has. Always will. Nothing can change that, apparently not even dying.

He won’t explain his feelings for John, couldn’t even if he wanted to. They’re his, just as John is. But he can’t leave, not without knowing he’s done all he can to help John and protect him from his worst enemy – himself.

“I can’t worry about how I survived right now. I need to keep John safe. I know it’s asking a lot. But will you do one other thing for me, Molly?” He hates how hesitant his voice is, but makes himself say it anyway. This is too important.

She doesn’t even pause before she answers. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Keep an eye on him? Try not to let him fall too deeply into the darkness.” He knows all too well the despair that grief can drive a person into. And he doesn’t want his doctor trapped there alone.

“I’ve got it,” Molly assures him. “I’d’ve done that anyway, but I’ll do it for both our sakes, how ‘bout?”

Sherlock smiles back at her. “Capital idea.” She’ll never know how much her unconditional support means to him, but he opens a new wing in his mind palace and claims the first suite for her.

She leaves for a few moments to make arrangements for his departure. “Alright. My friend Melinda owes me a favour so she’s logged an extra patient into day surgery. We’ll get you changed and wrapped up so not even your own mother would recognize you and then I’ll take you out from that ward. My cat sitter is bringing my car, so I can take you home a bit later. Nothing unusual about that, Toby runs errands for me all the time. Once we’re certain there’s no lingering effects of your… of what happened to you, you can leave from my place for wherever you want to go.”

He holds back the sigh and doesn’t bother to point out that he wants no part of this situation. What he wants is to go to John, to see him whole and healthy, to beg his forgiveness. But he can’t. No matter how much he aches to find a way to make it possible, he cannot guarantee John’s safety if he did.

Sherlock carefully doesn’t comment on Molly’s slight slip over the mention of his death. He’d lived through it - somehow - and the entire thing has him unsettled. “That sounds acceptable. Thank you,” he tells her, with as much sincerity as he can muster while he struggles under the weight of his impending losses.

Molly beams at him but her voice is completely serious when she speaks again. “In case I forget to tell you later, I’m awfully glad you’re not dead.”

Sherlock lets himself smile then, a real smile. “Molly, I can tell you with complete and total sincerity that makes two of us.”

 

***

Three months, two days and six hours after Sherlock’s death, Mycroft follows his own protocol and sets up a meeting with his brother in a dreary, cinder block warehouse in the Nangang District of Taipei. It’s cold, dark and smells terrible but he’s certain no one is watching when he begins to speak.

“I recently got in touch with an old friend of mine by the name of Adam Pierson, or at least that’s the name he’s using currently.” He holds up a hand to forestall the snide comment. Sherlock has every right to his less than sunny mood, but there are limits to the amount of time they can be together, even with precautions. “Adam spent many years as a member of an organization called ‘the Watchers’. My contacts couldn’t find out exactly what that referred to for a number of years. However, with the information we acquired subsequent to your death, that has changed.”

Mycroft ignores the impatient ‘get on with it’ gesture from his brother. “As it turns out, the Watchers are charged with observing a certain subset of people. These people are - for all intents and purposes - immortal.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment and when he speaks, his voice is soft and devoid of sarcasm or any other form of derision. “What exactly does that entail?”

Mycroft lays out the facts that he’s gathered as dispassionately as possible and then waits for the reaction he figures is most likely.

“It’s an impossibility,” Sherlock can’t hide the thread of doubt in his tone.

“Before your unfortunate demise, I would have agreed with you, but there must be an explanation for your continued presence on this mortal coil and you know my stance on the impossible. But I had assumed you would be reluctant to take the word of second hand information, regardless of how reliable it may be.”

He gestures Sherlock over to the chair he’s set up in the corner. The camera on a tripod was set to capture every detail of what happened to the chair’s occupant. Once Sherlock sits down, Mycroft ignores the sick feeling in his stomach. The source of his information is unimpeachable and had been very blunt about how best to convince his brother.

“You can tell him until you reach the end of days, if you happen to get that lucky. He’s going to need to see it - really see it - before he can believe you,” Adam had told him, his tone somber and a little sad. “Take my word for it, Mycroft. It’s the fastest way to deal with this part. Then you can get to all the things that come after.”

Even knowing what he knows doesn’t make it easy to cause his brother pain, much less such a terrible injury.

“I’ll apologize now for the pain this will cause. It’s an unfortunate side effect of what’s necessary,” Mycroft says as he withdraws the gun from the holster beneath his suit jacket. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he’s about to say his brother’s name. Even now, after everything, there’s a trace of fear in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Just trust me,” he murmurs in the same tone he’s been using since Sherlock was very small and had started coming to Mycroft with all his hurts.

And then he fires a perfectly placed shot through his brother’s heart.

Mycroft imagines that the coming moments are what Purgatory is like, if there is such a thing. Endless limbo, waiting for an end to his suffering. There are no other cameras and no one to see his hands shake or the line of his mouth pull tight. When the wound closes, he starts to breathe. When Sherlock inhales shakily a moment after that, Mycroft allows himself a small smile and ignores the dizzy swell of relief as best he can.

When Sherlock’s eyes open, the look in them is distinctly unfriendly. “Surely there were better ways of making your point?,” he asks, with his hand over the hole in his shirt.

“None that come to mind, sadly. Come watch the tape. Seeing is believing, they say.”

They stand shoulder to shoulder to watch the footage. Once the viewing is over, Mycroft deletes it and destroys the machine without hesitation. Some things are too dangerous to be kept.

“Now,” he continues, after giving his brother another moment or so to process. “You’ll still need to avoid major injury or death in public. Should a public death occur, you’ll need several top security clearance identities ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

After a slight pause to express his distaste, Mycroft explains the so-called Game that Immortals play, though he has no doubt that Sherlock will allow such things in his life only on his own terms. “Apparently, it’s a good thing you have eccentric hobbies,” he concludes. “You’re not without skill, but you’ll need to brush up on your sword work. Adam says that challenges occur much less frequently these days, but they do still happen and the rules dictate the rest of us cannot interfere.”

Sherlock lets out an inelegant snort. “Yes because you have always been so terribly concerned with following the rules.”

Mycroft gives him his best innocent look. “Naturally, I’m quite concerned with them. One must know the rules in order to work the system, after all."

***

Two years, four months, three days and four hours after Sherlock dies, John comes home to find the detective sitting on the sofa, in one of his impeccable suits. His hair is shorter, he’s lost weight he can’t afford to lose and there is a jagged scar that runs from behind one ear down his neck, but it is undeniably him. John halts and says nothing, feeling his body come to attention out of habit.

Sherlock takes his lack of response as invitation to start talking. Slowly, haltingly, with odd pauses in several places, he explains Moriarty’s end game.

John barely hears when he explains how, if he wanted to keep John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alive, Sherlock had to die and why he chose to stay ‘dead’ to break down Moriarty’s network.

John’s brain starts working again just as Sherlock is going to explain how he pulled it off. He holds up a hand and asks the most important question. “So you staying dead and gone was a deliberate choice?” His voice sounds hollow, even to himself.

Instead of explaining, Sherlock merely nods, clearly aware he’s on dangerous ground. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. But surely you can see it was the only way."

John’s mind freezes and then goes blank. “No. No, I really can't.” His eyes slide shut and he bows his head for a long moment, fighting to keep himself from shaking. Blisteringly hot anger fills him despite his wish to keep his distance from his emotions. Sherlock had died, and John had nearly died too, crushed under the weight of too many regrets and more pain than he thought was possible to survive.

“Stop talking. I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter how you did it or what your grand plan was. I don’t even care that you did it to save my life, although that’s a pretty fucking convenient excuse to be an absolute bastard. You could have let me in on the plan. You could have found a way to let me know you weren’t really dead. If you had found a way to let me know you weren’t really dead after the fact, I think I could have found a way to forgive you.

“But this? No, Sherlock. You let me think you were dead. You let me believe I mattered so little to you that you would rather die than find another way. Every single day since then, I’ve asked myself what I could have done to save you. I forced myself to keep living even though it was the last thing I wanted because I failed you.”

John stops talking, bites back the flow of more words. One deep breath. Then another. When he speaks, his voice breaks. “Don't be here when I come back.” And then he leaves the room, his steps quiet and measured. A few moments later, he is safe in his room and the door closes behind him with a quiet click.

If not for how completely destroyed he feels, the other reactions to Sherlock’s return might almost be interesting. He can hear the shriek Mrs. Hudson gives when she first lays eyes on Sherlock later that day and the echoes of happy chatter as she demands an accounting of his absence. When he sees Greg’s car pull up later, he feels himself cringe, but makes no move to join them.

Sherlock leaves only a few minutes after. He texts the name and address of a nearby upscale hotel, but John doesn’t give in to the part of him that desperately wants to answer.

John waits until he is certain Sherlock is gone before he gives into the pain tearing through his chest and punches a hole in the wall. The physical pain forces the emotional anguish back, but only a little. He thought that losing Sherlock was the worst thing that could happen. He was wrong.

Over the next few days, he ignores the calls, texts and picture messages from his former best friend. People tell him not to do anything rash, that he’ll get over it, or that he should at least hear the other man out. John ignores them as steadfastly as he ignores Sherlock.

He no longer believes that Sherlock cares for him, or that he ever did. No one would put someone they cared about through what he’s gone through in the past years. And he’s not interested in knowing how the plan came together, how Sherlock’s grand scheme saved the day. He can’t handle knowing the details of how someone he thought cared about him did something so unspeakably cruel.

A week after his return, Sherlock borrows Greg’s phone to text him. John doesn’t reply. He does tell Greg if he allows that again, John will block his number and never contact him again. He ignores Greg’s apology and doesn’t particularly care if the reaction seems overly dramatic. It is the absolute truth.

Mrs. Hudson tries a different approach and invites him down for tea and homemade biscuits, lemon crème - his favourite. As he takes a bite of the first one, she pours a steaming cup of his favourite Earl Grey blend. He knows she’s up to something, and he even knows what it is. But he’s come to love her, so he hears her out.

“Now, John. I know you’re upset and I understand. Part of me is too. But it’s not like he didn’t have good reason to do what he did.”

He finishes his biscuit but doesn’t take another. “I’m glad he’s alive, but that doesn’t make it better. He chose the fucking game over me - over us.” He shakes his head and manages an apology for the bad language but Mrs. Hudson only tuts at him.

“It’s fine dear. I’ve heard worse. And I know you’re angry but he wouldn’t have done it if not for us.”

“Really? Because I think he loves his schemes so much that, just maybe, he would.” He’s almost surprised at how bitter he sounds, but he says it, because maybe he needs to say it to somebody. And there aren’t a lot of people left in the world that he trusts. “Even if we’re the reason he did it, if he really wanted to, he could have found a way to let us know that he was still alive.”

And there’s nothing she can say to that. Instead she hands him another biscuit and asks him what he thinks about the fact that Mycroft has asked Molly out on a date.

 

***

Three days after his chat with Mrs. Hudson, John has a crap day. He wakes up tired and headachey, has a terrible shift at A&E that makes him question his decision to go back into trauma entirely and gets thoroughly drenched in a sudden rainstorm on his walk from the tube station to Baker Street. It’s relatively early but he takes a steaming hot shower, dumps his clothes in the laundry bin on the way to get clean pants to sleep in and grabs a handful of biscuits to call dinner before he heads to his bedroom to crawl beneath his sheets. He’s asleep before he can even finish the last one.

His internal clock tells him it is about four hours later when his eyes snap open. There was no noise to alert him but his body remembers what being watched feels like far too well to let him sleep through it.

His eyes sweep the room and stop on Sherlock, who is trying to affect an air of nonchalance in the doorway.

“Oh come on. Bloody hell, Sherlock: take a hint. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you and I sure as hell don’t want you lurking in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

“I am most certainly not lurking,” Sherlock counters, his stiff, formal tone matched by his over enunciation.

In another life, John might have been amused. Now all he feels is empty. He’s cold and tired and he doesn’t have the energy to deal with the living embodiment of his mistakes.

“Sherlock. I know you’re smarter than this so I shouldn’t have to spell it out. But in the hopes of avoiding a repeat performance, I’ll do it anyway: go away. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m not going to change my mind. Consider it a lesson in the fact that some actions have consequences.”

“Yes thank you, I am aware.”

Now Sherlock’s words have bite, a sharp edge of anger that would be almost laughable if John didn’t feel so close to losing control.

“I understand what you are saying perfectly. How could I not, when that’s all you’ve been saying since my return? But you’re labouring under false assumptions and thus far you haven’t been at all amenable to correcting them. Let me give you the facts you’re missing. If you still wish me to leave after that, I will so and I will not attempt to contact you again.”

John rubs his head to stave off the headache he can feel brewing at his temples. The absolute gall of the man to assume that John owes him a damn thing!

“Alright, fine. Tell me. The sooner you tell me, the sooner you can leave.” He sits up and huffs out a breath, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

“Actually, I’m afraid I’ll have to show you.” The genuine regret in his tone makes John’s gaze sharpen, but Sherlock doesn’t explain. Instead, his hand dips into the pocket of his coat. When he takes out the large, wicked looking knife, he catches John’s eye and says “Whatever happens, take the knife out. Do nothing else. Promise me.”

Confusion and dread curl in his stomach but John doesn’t ask the obvious question, only nods once.

Sherlock smiles, just a little, and sits on the bed. Then he plunges the knife into his chest, through his heart.

John freezes, unable to process what just happened. A voice in his head shrieks that he cannot be going through this again, he can’t be losing Sherlock again. Blood leaks onto the floor as John’s heart pounds in his ears and his hands start to tremble.

But Sherlock had given him an order and the soldier in him pulls the knife out rather than dial nine nine nine. The blood slows just as Sherlock stops breathing and the light leaves his eyes. John feels tears gather in his eyes and slip down his cheeks. Angry as he has been, and promise or not, he has to try to get him back. Just as he shifts his weight to get closer, Sherlock takes a wet, ragged breath.

For a moment, John thinks he’s hallucinating, but it happens again.

Another breath, less wet, and then a cough, harsh and deep. When Sherlock’s eyes open they’re hazy with pain but he's definitely conscious and aware.

John jerks back before he can stop himself, then reaches out a shaking hand to take Sherlock’s pulse. “What the hell is going on? Is this another magic trick?” He desperately hopes it wasn’t an elaborate stunt designed to evoke sympathy.

“No, John. There was never any scheme or grand plan. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you," Sherlock tells him, his voice raw and threaded through with desperation. "It all happened much more quickly than I expected. When I jumped, I thought I had to, to save you - to save all of you.”

Sherlock stops and when he speaks again his voice is so soft that John has to strain to hear it.

“I...I never expected to survive.”

It’s ridiculous of course, completely impossible. And yet, John just watched Sherlock die. Again. “How, then? How can you be here? How the hell did you do that?”

“Well it’s not easy, I can assure you,” Sherlock begins. “The details of it are somewhat complicated but the short version is that, apparently, I am an Immortal. I cannot die, except through complete decapitation, and I will not age past the day of my first death.”

“Immortal?” John echoes, feeling a wave of dizziness as he fights to process what he’s being told. It should be impossible. He would never have believed it if he hadn’t just seen the evidence himself.

Sherlock nods. “My parents adopted Mycroft and I when we were newborns. They had no information about our background, nor did they particularly care, so I may never know where this facet of me comes from. So what I said to you when I jumped wasn’t part of some plan. I’m ashamed to say that I underestimated the lengths to which Moriarty would go and I failed to put proper contingencies in place when I should have. I can assure you that Mycroft is having a field day with that.”

John watches black spots dance in his field of vision and wonders in a distant way if he’s going to pass out. As practiced as he is at dealing with sudden crises, this is beyond the pale.

He read Sherlock’s letter, eventually let himself believe it, but he still can’t wrap his mind around the idea that Sherlock meant to die for him, without hesitation.

He knows he would kill for Sherlock, just like he knows he would die for Sherlock without having to think about it, but he’d never expected reciprocity. He’s always the one that cares - that loves - more fiercely than the other people in his life. He always needs them more than they need him. Or so he thought.

All of this flashes through his mind in just a few heartbeats before he says the first thing that comes to him. “You’re an idiot,” he says, uncaring that all that he feels - the love, the exasperation, the confusion, the happiness - is right there for the other man to see.

Sherlock looks startled. “Oh thank you very much for that,” he retorts.

And John cannot help but grin. “No, you are. Did you forget who we are? We thrive on impossible situations, yet you never thought to warn me how far Moriarty might go. We could have found another way. You should never have taken that kind of chance, not for me.”

Now Sherlock’s expression shifts to haughty and offended. “I should think that is my decision, wouldn’t you?” But when he stops, he just sits there looking lost and uncertain. He’s not usually hesitant and it’s not a good look on him.

John takes a long moment to breathe and try to process how very much this mad, impossible genius must love him. He has to clear his throat to speak around everything he feels. “You need to understand that I’m still incredibly angry with you. I’m so fucking angry that I don’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you, although apparently the latter would have next to no effect.”

John leans forward to grip Sherlock’s shirt in one strong fist. He tugs Sherlock closer until they are lined up chest to chest, so close that the warmth of his skin distracts him from his point. He doesn’t care about the blood staining the shirt and he can’t look at anything but Sherlock’s face. He reaches out slowly and rips the ruined fabric aside to lay his hand over the smooth, unbroken skin above the other man’s heart. He waits to feel it beat a few times under his hand, feeling a surge of pain and relief. Pain because the echo of loss is still there and now he knows there are places Sherlock will have to go that he can’t follow. But relief too, because it’s a bloody miracle – not some mad scheme but a real, honest to God miracle - that they are even having this conversation.

But there is one more important point. “And you need to understand that I don’t care if you are Immortal, you cannot - you absolutely fucking better not - take chances with your life.”

“Yes, John.”

When Sherlock answers in the affirmative, John leans over and kisses him, not easy or light, but as if he’s going to devour every last inch of him. Heat flashes between them, fast enough that they might both end up at the centre of an inferno, but he doesn’t care. He can’t imagine that he ever thought Sherlock cold or unfeeling.

It’s only one kiss, but John feels his head spin and his libido scream for attention. But he’s not finished with the admonitions. “You had better bloody accept that we’re a team. No more making life altering decisions without at least asking me how I feel about it.”

He pauses for another kiss, all heat and want and it’s so good that he doesn’t want to stop but he manages somehow. When he speaks, his tone is flatly serious, more soldier than potential lover. “And if you leave me behind again, no matter what the reason, I will find you and I will kill you myself… or at least make you wish that I had. Are we clear?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answers with a slight shiver.

As soon as he acquiesces, John’s mind turns positively predatory. “Good answer. In that case, you’re forgiven for barging in here if you can get naked and in my bed in less than thirty seconds.”

John lets himself fall back to the bed as he says this and slides a hand down slowly to pull off the pants he slept in.

Sherlock doesn’t normally brag about his dexterity. He likes to say that he prefers achievements of the mind. But it’s not a surprise to John that he manages to do as he’s told with two full seconds to spare.

John pulls him down until Sherlock’s covering him like a blanket and revels in the weight. For all the times he’s thought about it, it still a bit of a shock to look up and see those impossibly multi-coloured eyes so close to his own. He reaches up and runs his hands down Sherlock’s chest, enjoying the answering shudder. They should shower but there’s not enough blood to matter much. After all the wasted time, he just can’t wait.

He’s not stupid enough to believe that Sherlock shut down an organization as vast as Moriarty’s without injury, but it’s small comfort that it isn’t written in his skin. He’s still paler than he should be, but the muscles underneath his hands are more defined than John expected.

Sherlock kisses with the same intensity that he does everything else and his mouth is sinfully distracting as he makes his way down the side of John’s neck with a pleased hum.

It occurs to John that maybe he should stop this, that they should probably talk before they change their relationship like this. But he’s always looked before he leaped and nothing they could talk about would change what he wants anyway. Besides, Immortal or not, he and Sherlock don’t have any guarantees, he knows that better than anyone. So, just this once, he’s going to be selfish and take exactly what – or rather who - he wants. The rest, they can figure out later. Much later.

 

***FIN***


End file.
